


A Daisy Chain of Being Alive

by lalejandra



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-14 09:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: John's cock is gorgeous and Rodney wants to suck it all day.





	A Daisy Chain of Being Alive

Rodney had learned that if there was a moment, he had to take it. Always. It's what got you the accolades and the time with the supercomputer and the ability to lose your virginity to the prom queen.

It's what got you to Atlantis—well, and Siberia, and it got him hated by his peers, but once he was on a roll, he couldn't stop. Becoming abrasive isn't something that comes so naturally, but, rather, it takes time, and considerable effort. It's exhausting, but rude to people all the time, but they are _so stupid_ , and their stupidity hurts him—physically, not just mentally, _and_ not just in the way that he could die if they don't get their heads out of their collective asses.

There are three exceptions to this rule, and they are, of course, Ronon and Teyla and John. Who else would they be. He did not ever expect to have _any_ exceptions; he expected to live his whole life with people who should worship his genius, be berated when they did not, who would always hate him. Some guy once told Rodney that it was better to be feared than loved, but better to be loved than hated.

Rodney told him to shut up and get back to sucking his cock. That's because Rodney was a fucking jackass, and he knew it, and he wanted the beautiful physics groupies to shut the hell up and keep their mouths full of cock at all times, since when they opened their mouths for anything else, it was only proof that they were groupies because any kind of physics was beyond them—and for gods' sakes, some of them had never even got past calculus or _anything_ , and gave him completely blank looks when he used parabolas for simile.

John Sheppard, on the other hand, gave him a blank look for fun, because he thought it was hysterical to pretend to be stupid, and that made Rodney want to, beyond everything else, suck _his_ cock.

So when the opportunity presented itself, in the face of imminent danger—or, rather, in the face of the end of imminent danger, after they'd survived impossible odds _yet again_ , thanks to the Pegasus Galaxy and its complete misunderstanding of the way odds are supposed to work; Rodney sucked John's cock.

John, for his part, took it the way that Rodney always has: which is to say, John took it as his due, as master of Atlantis, as the Guy Who Triumphs Over The Odds just as much as Rodney does. It was John's fault as much as Rodney's that they blew up a solar system, which, Rodney thinks, brought them closer together instead of driving them apart, although they couldn't meet each other's eyes for a while. Understandable, right? Blowing up most of a solar system is more intimate than fucking in so many ways, and once fucked by someone, Rodney has a hard time looking at them for a while.

Well, what do you want? He's a genius but he's not perfect, and his ass is hairy, and he hates enemas, and once someone has seen your shit on a condom, the bloom is off the metaphorical fucking rose, don't you agree?

John's cock is gorgeous and Rodney wants to suck it all day. He pulls John into one of the working transporters. Everyone else is gone—to sleep the sleep of people who know that one day _they_ are going to be the ones who die in the face of the myriad death Pegasus has to offer them. That is to say, of course, the deep sleep of people who do as much as they can for as little return as possible, but at least they are alive.

That is to say, Rodney realizes as he unzips John's pants, they are probably all fucking like bunnies, and the cock he should probably be sucking is Ronon's, as he sucks John's cock, as John goes down on Teyla. A daisy chain of being alive, of once again thwarting the motherfucking odds. Elizabeth is down for the count, or Rodney would include her too.

But with Elizabeth there'd be too much negotiation. Rodney doesn't like negotiation. If citrus and piss aren't involved, he's pretty much willing to try it.

Citrus has always been his safeword. He thinks Elizabeth probably wouldn't get it; she'd want to make a contract, work things out. Rodney just wants to go with the moment, just fuck and be fucked, and possibly involve chocolate syrup in some way, maybe draw out some of the equations for subspace on someone's shoulders, and then eat it off them. He wants to absorb physics through his skin; there is no better way to do that than sex.

People being injured and dying is too much to think about now, and John's BDUs are remarkably soft under Rodney's callused fingers, and John's looking down at him, like, _yes_ and _do it now_ and _what are you waiting for?_

Unless Rodney is completely misinterpreting what John's face is saying, because, for all he knows, John could be thinking about puddle jumpers.

John smells delightful, like sweat, and the coldness of living, and Rodney looks up at him, away from the smell, away from the bush of hair, awake from the cock that is waiting for him and says, "You're not thinking about the jumpers, are you?" and John looks down at him.

There is no misinterpreting that glance.

"Shut up and suck my cock," says John, and that's the kind of thing Rodney likes to hear—clear direction, emphasis, positive reinforcement, _and_ an allowance of variation on the theme for Rodney genius and imagination to take hold of and really—really when Rodney wants to, he can go to work.

So he does.

He licks it first, around the head. John is cut, and his cock is long, a little thick, but it's not the perfect cock. It's the everyman's cock. Rodney's always been a little bit self-conscious about the fact that his cock is thicker than its head; he thinks it looks weird. John's cock could be in a magazine or something. It's flushed red, and it's hard enough that Rodney can't quite fit it all in his mouth.

John's hands slide into his hair, and he gets hard really fast, fills up Rodney's mouth, comes out his lips. He hits the back of Rodney's throat, and Rodney's voice is going to be scratchy for at least a day, and he likes that. There's a certain kind of pain that works very well as a motivator, and it's not the kind of pain you get when some asshole cuts your arm with a knife. It's the kind of pain you get when your lips are stretched just a little too far around a cock that is just a little too big. It's a little too hard to breathe, and the zipper is digging into Rodney's check, and his face is smushed.

He pulls off a little to breathe, and to swallow the taste of everything he can get. One hand goes on John's thigh and the other goes around his cock and starts to jack it so Rodney can really work on the head. He likes the piss slit—although, for gods' sake, he doesn't like to be pissed _on_ , and the minute anyone tries it, Rodney's out of there, because it's something you do to bottoms to show that you own them, he knows that much. It's not just a kink, not like thigh holsters getting him off, not like being held down, not like being told what to do.

Being held down and told what to do is so obvious, what it means to Rodney, it's not like it requires, even, any _thought_.

"Come on," says John impatiently, and he whines a little, but Rodney takes his time, and grips securely, not too tightly, but tight enough that John will feel it; tight enough that _Rodney_ feels it. Tight enough that it looks good, Rodney's big hand against John's big cock.

Rodney sucks on the head and swirls his tongue around it, until all it tastes like is Rodney's own spit, which tastes mostly like black coffee, a little sour and a little delicious. John's hands twist in his hair when he takes the whole thing in, lets it bump his throat, and John's hips start to move, not a lot, but Rodney wants them to, wants John to fuck his mouth as much as possible.

John's not going to do it, though; not the first time, so Rodney moves his head as much as he can, slams the head of John's cock into the back of his throat. It makes his eyes water and brings up mucous into his mouth, which is all the better to slick John's shaft, all the better, to make John breath harshly through his nose and twist his hands through Rodney's hair.

Rodney doesn't have a lot of hair, but what he has makes admirable reins.

Rodney is a scientist and he likes it when things work and fit together. He's always been fantastic at jigsaw puzzles and Tetris and Q-Bert and all of that bullshit, and he's always been fantastic at blow jobs. He lets his face sink onto John's cock, and the hand that kept him upright by leaning on John's thigh goes between John's leg to balls. Oh, god, balls—hair, and not really round, and begging for Rodney to take them in his mouth, to lick around, lick up to John's ass, and take in everything John smells like—musk and sweat, and the cold of being alive.

It's strange, and something Rodney is going to have to think about, that John smells cold. He isn't a warm guy, but his body is giving off heat, and there's public hair in Rodney's nose, and John's balls are perfect in his hands.

"Jerk me off," says John. Orders John.

"How?" says Rodney, pulling away, oh, balls— _I'll be back to you someday_ , he promises, because if there's one opportunity, there will be another, and another, and he'll up the ante until he gets the BDUs off John's chicken legs, until John's under him, face down, and Rodney will prove once and for all the hypothesis that John's ass does exist.

Two hands around John's cock, which is something Rodney knows is too hard to do masturbating, and thumbs on the head, massaging. The trick is the rhythm, to find a rhythm and not stop, and every guy has his own, so it's a continually evolving theory, which Rodney loves; always changing and always applicable, but _always different_ , and always requiring concentration. Rodney can discover ten new minerals before lunch—Rodnium and Zelekium and even Mikoium; he comes up with names when he can't sleep instead of counting sheep; he'll name one after his sister if he finds something annoying enough—but what takes concentration is this, what takes time is this.

John comes on his face, and Rodney grins up at him. His knees hurt and, god, he needs a Power Bar, preferably one of the ones with chocolate and peanut butter, and he wants a Cadbury with nuts, and when he licks John's cum off his mouth, it tastes like _winning_.

"What the fuck?" John is still breathing harshly, though his nose.

Rodney thinks about it and then says, "I hate to see an opportunity for scientific advancement go to waste."

It doesn't make sense, but it seems that John understands, because he runs a thumb along Rodney's eyebrow, wipes come away, and lets Rodney lick it off. Rodney sucks on John's thumb for a minute, bites the inside of John's wrist.

Rodney himself is definitely hard and would like to get off as soon as possible, but he's not quite ready for John's washboard abs and perfect thighs to see him without clothing. That's a little too intimate.

"Next time I'll come—" John stops and stares at Rodney, who's still on his knees. Above John's head, the transporter light is flashing blue to let Rodney and John know that it's stopped. Of course it's stopped, what a fucking stupid thing. It doesn't flash that it's _broken_ , just that it's not moving.

"Next time you can come in my mouth," says Rodney. Opportunities should not be wasted; chances should be taken. Even if it blows up most of a solar system. Fuck it; scientific advancement is necessary, and even though he'd be pissed, if someone blew up his solar system to learn something, well, it has to be done.

In another time, Rodney thinks, he could be a really scary man.

"I don't—I can't get off that way," says John. He runs a hand through Rodney's hair. He uses his hand to get the come off Rodney's face, although Rodney can tell he needs to wash up; he'll be sticky until the application of soap.

Rodney eats all the come off John's hand, paying special attention to fingernails, special attention to the contrast of salty bland come to sour sweat. And he thinks that it's interesting that John can't get off being sucked. Rodney's met a few of those guys. He feels a sudden urge to find out if John can get off being fucked, and his dick surges in his pants, and he wants—he doesn't know what he wants. He can't put a name to it. But he wants to spend at least twenty-four hours going over John's body like he's a fully charged ZPM.

That's what he wants. That's actually pretty specific.

"Next time, I'll fuck you," says John, and he pulls Rodney up by the hair.

"Next time, I'll let you," says Rodney. There's a moment, and it hangs there; it could turn into a kiss, but Rodney's not sure he wants it to. He doesn't want to taste John's mouth, and kissing inevitably leads to regrets that sex doesn't. But John just tugs roughly on Rodney's hardon, and then zips himself back in, and the transporter starts moving again.

In the white light, John doesn't look like Rodney just gave him a fantastic—if Rodney says so himself—blow job. But Rodney is going to hold John to that promise, to be fucked. Maybe all night. John's got some kind of massive self-control thing happening, and Rodney will take full advantage of that. He wants to be pounded into an uncomfortable Pegasus bed for as long as possible, his ass clenching, and his nerve endings firing so that his fingers can't move and he drools and his whole body either stays perfectly still or can't stop moving.

When they get off the transporter, there's no one around. John heads to the gateroom, and Rodney heads to his lab, walking carefully. If he's going to jerk off, it will be in the tiny room no one ever goes into, where they keep all the delicious Ancient devices they haven't figured out yet.

  



End file.
